The List
by Sena Rae
Summary: It's been weeks, but Wilson's finally gotten around to asking House again. Why were you drinking at 5:30 in the afternoon?


1Just a little drabble, House/Wilson friendship.

It's taken weeks, but Wilson's finally gotten around to asking him again. Why were you drinking at 5:30 in the afternoon?

It's been weeks since Wilson's felt this sense of purpose. His thoughts have been on the past, on her, on everything he's lost, not on what he still has left. He almost feels ashamed.

He hesitates outside Houses's door, afraid to knock. He hasn't been here in so long, it feels strange. He shakes his head for a moment, wondering why.

It's not that they haven't stayed friends. They have, haven't they? he asks himself, suddenly unsure. They see each other every day. They consult. They even have the occasional lunch. And if House has just presumed that Wilson has forgiven him, instead of asking for forgiveness, well that is not much more than he expected anyway.

Maybe they have been more than a little cold with each other, but hey, that's what he has expected too. He knew he would never get warm and fuzzy comfort from House. He expected exactly what he got, sarcastic comments about wallowing and how the "sad dudes get all the girls." House's brand of tough love and avoidance of anything even slightly emotional.

They've never been alone. At least not here, at House's apartment, where it mattered. As much as he's kept House at arms length since Amber's death, House has been just as reclusive.

He can hear the television's low drone, and House's uneven footsteps as he comes to answer the door. He almost turns away, but he's here now, and he has to know. It's kept him awake for hours, until he reluctantly got in the car and drove over, needing the answer.

"It's late," House says, without opening the door, and Wilson glances at his watch to see it's almost midnight.

"Let me in House."

House limps back over the couch, after unlocking the door. The room is dark except for the glow of the television.

Wilson stands just inside the door, hands on his hips, his stance combative.

"I need to ask you a question. And I need you to answer me," Wilson starts, determined now that he's here.

"Ask away," House answers flippantly, not even looking his way.

"I need the truth House."

"Ask something then," House answers impatiently.

"I asked you this once before, but you never really answered me. I need to know. Why were you at that bar? Why did you start drinking at 5:30? Why did you drink until you were too drunk to walk, much less drive? Why?" Wilson says on a sigh, "What was wrong?" he asks on a whisper, weeks too late.

The silence seems to last forever.

"I was . . . lonely."

Wilson's head jerks up, ready with a come back to the flippant remark, but the look in House's eyes, as he meets his gaze, has him hesitating. He's not lying, Wilson realizes. And there's more, much more.

Wilson tosses his jacket and walks to the kitchen, jerking open the fridge with shaking hands. He pulls out two beers and walks back to the couch. He hands one to House as he sits down next to him on the couch and twists the top off of his.

Taking a long sip of the cool liquid, he leans forward and grabs the remote, hitting the mute button. The light from the television casts shadows around the room. He needs House to know he's listening.

"Sometimes the pain, the depression . . .," House continues, rolling the bottle of beer between his hands. He voice trails off, leaving more unsaid.

"House. . ." Wilson sighs, feeling helpless and a little foolish. He's a doctor, house's doctor most of the time. . . he should have been on top of this.

Pausing, House swallows a long sip of beer, and takes a deep breath, glancing quickly at Wilson and trying desperately to read his mind.

"You didn't need me anymore," House whispers, his voice low and husky. Picking at the paper on the bottle, he sighs deeply. Dropping his head back on the couch, he closes his eyes, whether in exhaustion or defeat, Wilson's not sure.

"It was just one more thing I could cross off my list of why I stick around here," House states, his voice void of any emotion. "You know what I mean?" he asks to no one.

And Wilson does know what he means, because his list is dangerously short too.

"Yeah, I know," he answers, sitting forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Damn," he mutters, getting up slowly.

He goes back into the kitchen and grabs a couple more beers. Dropping back down on the couch, he grabs the remote and un-mutes the television.

"I'm going to stay here tonight, okay?" he comments, not really asking, as he puts his feet up on the coffee table.

"Sure," House answers, "think it's too late for a pizza delivery?"

"Elmo's is open til 2:00 a.m. on the weekend," Wilson comments.

"Cool," House replies, grabbing the phone.

Laughing for the first time in weeks, Wilson looks over at his friend. It wasn't perfect, it probably wasn't even normal. But it worked. For both of them.


End file.
